I Am Become Death, The Destroyer of Worlds
by Honestcannibal
Summary: "He was found wandering in a field, a couple of locals reported seeing him; didn't say much on the ride back, by the looks of it he's suffered some sort of trauma." - Post-Reichenbach, warnings inside. SEQUEL NOW UP: Under The Outer Layer (Link in last chapter)
1. Alone In The Dark

**I wanted to make this a kind of read-as-you-go story, meaning there isn't a heads up for what's coming, but I didn't want to upset anyone, so I'll give a warning on sensitive subjects.**

**Warnings: explicit rape, underage, forced prostitution, self harm.**

**Set _after _TRF.**

**This story is very, very dark so if you're hoping for happiness and rainbows, you've come to the wrong place friend.**

* * *

Reality was fading from him, becoming an abyss. He had forgotten how to use his mind, how to remember, his brain had failed him, shocked him, taken him down and made him common. He breathed in the cold air of the night, darkness surrounding his vision, coldness smothering his body from the winter.

Was it winter? November, he thought roughly.

"You all right there?" A voice called from behind him, snapping him back to this reality. He didn't know what was real anymore, what he knew was what he didn't know and it all didn't make any sense to him.

He touched his head with a cold hand and breathed out a hiss of pain. He turned to the voice when remembering it had spoken and saw a man in uniform; the police.

Had he committed a crime? Is that why he couldn't remember? A name was vacant in his head along with forty-thousand other things. _Moriarty._ He dimmed his thoughts and focused his attention back on the police officer in front of him.

"Let's get you to the station, yeah? You've got a nasty cut on your head." The officer gently reached out to him, taking a hold of his arm and slowly leading him forward. Where was he? He looked around to see grass and only grass. In the distance of the darkness he saw a road but other than that, it was just empty. He was trying to focus, trying to listen for anything hint of what had happened. "What's your name?" The officer asked softly, leading him to the police car which appeared in the emptiness.

He thought long and hard for a moment, trying to remember – _remember _– "Sherlock." He replied, his voice quiet to his own ears; unsure.

"Sherlock, ok, well we're going to get that gash looked at and find out what happened, all right?" The officer smiled warmly at him and sat him down in the back of the police car. Sherlock – _was that his name_ – nodded vacantly, too deep in thought to comprehend the concerned look on this officer's face.

The long ride was spent staring into the empty world that was forming slowly inside of Sherlock's head, he began to notice the endless fields spread far before his eyes, on both sides of the road there were layouts painted with long grass and trees. He felt claustrophobic from his own thoughts; they attacked his head all at once and tried to smother him. Blocking out the noise with his ears, he sat silently in the back of the car and ignored the officer's concerned questions.

Soon enough he was being led out of the police car into a large building, which he could blatantly see was Scotland Yard by the sign outside. The officer had kept him close almost in a protective manner; it made Sherlock uncomfortable and desperate to escape. He imagined the arms of a large figure stretching around him and burying him deep underneath the ground with just his thoughts and the coldness which spread through his body.

He was slowly becoming numb, his hands were no longer able to feel the door handle when he walked through into various large offices. The officer smiled again and led him through the corridor into a room at the end, where he ushered for Sherlock to sit down at a table and wait there until he returned. Sherlock nodded again and rubbed his hands together noticing his arms were bare. It took him a moment to look down and realize that he was just wearing a plain black t-shirt with dark jeans and a common made pair of American sneakers. He frowned at a certain thought niggling at the back of his mind; it was if he had been here before.

He remembers Scotland Yard and he remembers a long coat, a long expensive coat and the desire to lift the collar for a detail of fashion. It was good that he was remembering, he only wished he could think more. Just _think_.

As if on cue, the door opens and a man steps through with greying hair and a subtle face. The officer is behind him and when he looks up, his jaw drops and a look of surprise spreads across his face. He freezes in his steps, the officer behind him shutting the door before asking if there was a problem.

"Oh...Oh my God, Sherlock!" The grey-haired man gasped. Sherlock eyed him suspiciously; obviously this man had been involved with Sherlock, perhaps before. Judging by his reaction, not for some time.

Yes, finally his brain was beginning to work.

"D.I. Lestrade, you know this man?" The officer asked.

"Oh my God," This 'D.I. Lestrade' said again, placing a hand over his mouth in shock. "You're supposed to be dead!"

A memory flashed back into Sherlock's head and he hissed in pain, placing a hand on the side of his head. Falling, but from where?

_Pain, so much pain. _

"What happened, what are you doing here?" D.I. Lestrade darted forward, leaning over the table.

"He was found wondering in a field, a couple of locals reported seeing him; didn't say much on the ride back, by the looks of it he's suffered some sort of trauma." The officer said.

"That much is obvious," D.I. Lestrade turned towards the officer, "get John Watson on the phone, _now._"

_John...John Watson. John, yes John. A friend...a colleague. His job? _Pieces of his mind were breaking and it began to hurt. He gasped in pain and looked down at the metal table, trying to focus his attention away from the pain, away from the feeling of blood trickling down his face.

"Sherlock, Sherlock can you hear me?" D.I. Lestrade placed a hand on his shoulder and he recoiled, unknown as to why. He didn't like being touched, he felt dirty and distressed. He felt as though he had been touched enough.

All he could hear was his own breathing as D.I. Lestrade tried talking to him. It was blurred, his sound was blurred and the emptiness of the room began to close in on him. Claustrophobia struck him again and he panicked, itching insects that weren't crawling on him. What was happening? This wasn't normal, _this wasn't normal, he wasn't normal. Why? _

Reality struck him again, a cool sensation caused him to look up from the table and he saw another unrecognised man in front of him. By the stinging feeling in his head, Sherlock realized this man was treating the cut on his head. His shoulders felt heavy and he noticed a blanket had been placed over him, so slowly he pulled it around himself, feeling exposed to the cold.

Edges of the room came into view again and he saw D.I. Lestrade staring at him with a worried expression on his face. The man treating his cut stood up and said a few quiet words to D.I. Lestrade before leaving.

D.I. Lestrade sat down opposite Sherlock slowly, staring him dead in the eye before speaking, "what do you remember?"

Sherlock blinked, trying to focus his eyes again. He couldn't remember anything, just words that flew around in his mind. "Darkness," He admitted, "just...just darkness."

"That's all?" D.I. Lestrade asked, "No names, no faces?"

"I remember Moriarty...I don't...who's John?"

The man in front of him looked disbelievingly at him for a moment before replying, "He's your friend and he'll be here soon. You live with him."

"What happened?" Sherlock asked desperately, his voice cracked at the last word. He was terrified, he couldn't remember a thing and slowly things he didn't know where hitting him violently.

D.I. Lestrade gave him a sympathetic look, "that's what we're hoping to find out, Sherlock."


	2. Shaken

**I was listening to 'Fallen Tears' by BrunuhVille whilst writing this chapter and I thought it went nicely. **

* * *

John dropped the phone as soon as he heard what he _really _couldn't believe. He exhaled and felt the smallest amount of tears prickling his eyes; Mary was behind him in an instant, "John? What's wrong?" She asked, worried.

John took a moment, feeling a deep, dark cavity grow inside his chest. "I have to go to Scotland Yard." He rushed for his coat and Mary stepped back,

"At this time of night?" She questioned, "I don't understand, they haven't spoken to you in years, why now?"

"I don't know." John lied, shrugging on his coat.

"Well you must know, they must have told you."

"Sherlock's alive!" John yelled feeling himself shake from the truth of it. Mary was silent then placed a hand on his shoulder,

"Do you want me to come with you?"

John nodded, glad she wasn't asking 'how' or 'when' because he seriously didn't know and just wanted to see if this was all true – God he hoped it was true, he hoped he would see him again. The ride to Scotland Yard was a long one and John felt himself slowly becoming more and more anxious at the thought of seeing his friend again. He decided to abandon all those doubts; he had been told that Greg wanted to speak to him urgently and when he'd asked why, the officer on the phone had said that it was regarding Sherlock Holmes, they had found him apparently.

John was clenching and unclenching his fists before Mary slipped her hand into his and gave it a gently squeeze, "I shouldn't ask, but are you ok?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine." John said quietly looking at her, "Just...confused and anxious and so, so _angry_."

"You're allowed to be, John, it's all right." She comforted,

"After three years - he made me think he was dead for three years." John sighed in frustration and ran a hand through his hair, "I can't believe it, I want to, I just can't."

When they arrived at Scotland Yard, an officer was waiting for them at the front entrance. Said officer led them to a corridor where they saw Lestrade stepping out of a room and shutting the door behind him. John darted up to him with Mary in tow.

"Greg, where is he?" John asked quickly,

"Give me a minute-"

"I want to see him." John demanded looking Greg in the eye.

"And you will, just give me a minute to explain." Greg rubbed the back of his neck, "I don't know what happened and neither does he. So, John, please go easy on him."

"Go easy on him?" John asked incredulously, "he made us believe he was dead for three years, I want to throttle the man!"

"He's suffered some sort of trauma, his head's all over the place and he doesn't remember a lot of things," Greg replied calmly, "if you try to kill him, God knows what he'll do."

"What do you mean?" John frowned,

"That man in there is not the Sherlock Holmes we knew." Greg said quietly, "maybe Mary should stay out here."

"No, I want to go in with John." She input and grabbed John's arm. Greg nodded and opened the door for them, saying he'll be there if they need anything.

When John walked in and he saw Sherlock sitting opposite him, his heart beat so fast he thought he was going to keel over right there and then. The man looked terrible, he was paler than usual and his eyes were dark when he looked at John.

John wanted to punch him, yell at him but he also want to hug him and thank God he was alive, he was trying to decide what one to go for before Mary sat him down at the table, opposite Sherlock and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. He grasped her hand with his and his legs went weak.

"You're...I can't believe it." John breathed. Sherlock was staring at him, a confused expression blatant on his pale face. John remembered what Greg had said about Sherlock not remembering a lot; he felt a cold shiver thinking that Sherlock had forgotten who he was. "I'm John, I was-I _am_ your friend."

"John..." Sherlock repeated as if in thought, "we...we worked together."

"Yeah," John felt a lump in his throat and swallowed heavily, "you were a consulting detective."

"Consulting detective?" Sherlock repeated,

"You invented the job," John let out a small laugh. He felt Mary stroke a thumb over his hand and it only made him want to cry even more. This broken man in front of him was his best friend who he thought was dead for three whole years; it doesn't get any sadder than that.

Sherlock nodded. He looked lost, confused and, John hated to admit it, but he looked _scared_.

"Do you remember anything? Anything at all?" John leaned forward in his chair slowly.

"Moriarty," Sherlock said quietly, "that name," he closed his eyes and turned his head away from John, "I remember falling and that name crossing through my mind."

"Moriarty made you jump. You jumped off the top of Bart's, I saw you with my own eyes; you jumped."

"There's something..." Sherlock was still deep in thought and John watched him closely, "something I...I plotted."

"Plotted?"

"Molly, there was woman named Molly." Sherlock turned to look at John suddenly, his eyes brightening in the dim light, "I never meant to die, John."

John breathed in slowly, taking it all in. It was a lot to hear in less than a minute and John really wanted to wake up from this nightmare; this couldn't be happening, it just couldn't.

"Listen, you've been through a lot, Sherlock, we both have, and I think maybe we just need to go back to the flat, have a rest and...Discuss everything." John reasoned. It would be strange having Sherlock back and he's sure Mrs. Hudson wouldn't ever want to let the man go again, maybe he should have talked it through with Mary first and hopefully she'll understand.

"But I..." Sherlock looked confused, "I don't understand, aren't you angry?"

"Angry? I'm bloody furious with you." John replied, "But until you can give me answers, there's nothing I should be angry about."

"When will I remember?" Sherlock reminded John of a frightened boy with such a small voice; he chewed the inside of his mouth, unsure of how to reply.

"I don't know," He shook his head, "I don't know but I'm hoping it's soon."

Sherlock nodded and pulled the blanket tighter around his body, John saw his hands shaking and rose from the chair, "come on then, let's get you home."

* * *

Greg hadn't been happy when John said Sherlock was going to go with them, he'd wanted to keep a close eye on him and contact Mycroft but John insisted that he wait until the morning when everything isn't so tits up, even Mary agreed. Reluctantly, Greg had given the 'ok' and said they were to drop by tomorrow.

So now, John watched as Sherlock paused in the middle of the living room, his eyes scanned over the re-furnished room; he looked towards the right wall, then the desk, soon turning quickly to look over the kitchen table then finally his eyes met the mirror. He looked as if he was surveying his appearance, as if he'd forgotten who he was. John stepped towards him carefully, "You ok?"

Sherlock turned to him quickly and flinched realizing how close John was, it was so un-Sherlock-like that John almost went to reach out and ask him what caused that action, but it was so likely that he wouldn't remember.

"You got rid of the...the..." Sherlock trailed off, looking towards the right wall which once held a yellow smiley face full of bullet holes. John did a quick turn to the wall and smiled to himself, _he remembers. _

"Yeah, well, it made the flat look tacky." John laughed shortly, "When you...I decided to change a few things here and there. But don't worry; I didn't change your bedroom."

He saw the hint of a smile on Sherlock's face and chuckled, "if you're hungry, I can-"

"No, no it's fine." Sherlock input quickly, "Thank you, but I'd just like to sleep."

"That's fine," John smiled warmly at the thought of Sherlock actually wanting to sleep and led him through to his bedroom, "I'll leave you to it, goodnight Sherlock." He said,

"Goodnight," Sherlock said absentmindedly, scanning the bedroom.

John shut the bedroom door behind him and let out a long breath as he stepped into the living room and collapsed into his chair, "Christ," he began, "this is all too much for one night."

Mary was by his side, placing a warm hand on his shoulder, "Anything I can do?"

"Tea would be lovely," John smiled up at Mary and kissed her hand. She smiled back down at him and left to make the tea. John was so lucky to have her.


	3. In Pieces

John jolted awake when he heard a yell. He sat up straight from his previous position of being slouched in the chair. Immediately regretting it, he rubbed his stiff neck and remembered why he got woken in the first place. Somebody had shouted, maybe Mary found another spider in the bedroom.

He sighed and stood up feeling every bone in his back click as he did so, then he heard the most terrified scream coming from Sherlock's bedroom. John bolted to his bedroom to see Sherlock thrashing violently in his sleep, yelling and screaming at invisible figures.

John ran a hand through his hair and thought what to do; quickly he knelt beside the bed and grabbed Sherlock's arms, ignoring how the other man writhed beneath him, desperate to get away. "Sherlock!" John called hoping to stir him back to reality.

It took four more calls before Sherlock finally awoke, breathing heavily and looking more than shocked, "John," He whispered, his voice hoarse from screaming. Immediately he wrapped his arms around John's torso and buried his head in his chest.

John stayed still for a moment, frozen from the sudden action. This is not something Sherlock would do, hell; he'd never embraced John _ever_. He could feel the other man shaking violently as he held onto John with a vice grip. John slowly, delicately wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held him close, whispering to him softly,

"I'm here, it's okay, I'm here."

John could see Mary in the corner of his eye in the doorway and he turned his head to her, she gave a sympathetic smile and leant against the doorframe. John soon calmed Sherlock down until he was asleep again; quietly he stood and looked down at the ex-detective now sleeping soundly. He felt a lump in his throat and manoeuvred out into the hallway, shutting the door silently behind him.

He ran a hand through his hair again, speaking around the tears threatening to leave his eyes, "that's not Sherlock," He sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands, "I can't..." He took a deep breath, "that's not him, something's definitely wrong."

Mary sat opposite him and took his hands gently, "maybe you should get him professional help."

"Like a therapist?" John scoffed, "He'd never agree to that."

"Maybe not, but John, he needs help. I don't know him at all but from just looking at him, I can see there is something there that shouldn't be."

John thought for a moment and sighed, kissing both of Mary's hands, "God, what would I do without you?"

"Hmm, you'd be a tealess man." She smiled and stood up, "come to bed, I'll keep an ear out for him."

"You're one of a kind, you know that?" John rose from his chair and pulled Mary into an embrace,

"I know." Mary gave him a cheeky smile and kissed him.

* * *

John woke up earlier than usual; it was no surprise really, what with everything going on, he'd finally gotten into a decent sleeping pattern when Mary moved in. As quietly as possible, John made his way downstairs to the kitchen and glanced at Sherlock's door, it was only seven in the morning; he wouldn't be awake just yet.

Although John didn't know exactly what Sherlock had experienced, he knew it was something very, _very _bad for him to suffer from night terrors. This was Sherlock, he was a very self-aware man, he ruled out everything single thing that happened to be illogical in his brilliant mind, and night terrors, to him, they were definitely illogical – _an illusion caused by traumatic experience or an irrational fear, _as Sherlock put it.

'_Just an illusion, John, you're safe.' _Sherlock would say when he was troubled by his night terrors. John smiled at the memory, feeling a sadness creeping over his chest. Last night, having to hold a man who used to be completely independent made him worry deeply, it was far too obvious that something wasn't right. He rubbed his face and sighed quietly, Mary was right, he should get Sherlock professional help.

John made himself a coffee and sat down at the desk, opening his laptop and starting it up. He stared out of the window as the laptop booted up._ Professional help_, he thought, _where do I even begin? _

After an hour of searching local communities and therapy sessions, John closed the laptop lid and sighed heavily. There was no use, all of these people wouldn't be able to help, they're more for teenagers with drug problems and parent issues, even though John didn't know what was going on inside of the ex-detective's head, he knew there was something _seriously _wrong.

He didn't even want to think about.

It took John about five seconds to realize Sherlock was staring at him from the kitchen. He wore his old pyjamas and blue silk dressing gown, sure enough he looked liked Sherlock but he didn't seem like him in the slightest.

"Oh, morning," John smiled. Sherlock's stare was unnerving that John stood from the chair and slowly approached him, "Sherlock?"

"Is there something wrong with me?"

John blinked, startled by the sudden question. "Do you think there's something wrong with you?" He asked gently.

Sherlock was quiet for a few moments, still staring at John. "Yes," he said finally, "yes I do."

John didn't quite know what to say, he should probably bring up the fact that he'd been thinking about getting Sherlock help. Then he hesitated, _what if that sets him off? I have no idea about his psychological state. Oh God, what do I say? _

"I've, uh, I've been looking up therapy." John stammered, "but it's only if you want it, nobody's forcing you, I just think-"

"Its fine," Sherlock gave a quick smile and looked away, "I'm sorry about last night."

"You don't need to be sorry; I just want to help you."

Sherlock was avoiding John's eyes and this made John uncomfortable, "what...what were you dreaming about?"

Sherlock went to speak but hesitated, still not looking at John, "Nothing, don't worry about it."

"Well..." John noticed Sherlock flinch as he moved passed him to get to the kitchen, "you can always talk to me if you need to."

"Thank you," Sherlock said quietly. John tried to ignore the worry in his gut, he couldn't wrap his head around the fact that Sherlock was alive, let alone not the same arrogant, stubborn sod he was before.

"Lestrade said he wanted to talk to you about some things," John said from the kitchen as he prepared himself another coffee seeing as his other one went cold. "Do you want tea?"

Sherlock mumbled something under his breath and John turned to him with a frown, "what?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock repeated slightly louder, "who is he?"

John chewed the inside of his cheek, "frankly, he's a pratt and I'm glad he's dead."

"He's dead?" Sherlock was visibly shocked. John blinked a few times,

"Yes, he died when you...well, 'died'."

"How?"

"He shot himself in the head; they found the body on the roof of Bart's."

Sherlock seemed to take a moment to process this. John was mesmerized by the fact that Sherlock couldn't remember who Moriarty was, of all the people to forget. Well, he did forget John, but he remembers a few things, which was obviously good during the circumstances. Then he heard Sherlock hiss in pain and grasp at his head.

"Sherlock?" John asked slowly approaching him, "what's wrong?"

"Stop it," Sherlock whispered harshly, "Stop."

"Stop what?" John asked softly,

"Don't," Sherlock said quietly when John reached out to touch him, "don't touch me."

"Okay, okay," John put his hands up as a peace sign but didn't back away, he wanted to make sure Sherlock didn't do anything to hurt himself; you never knew what this man was capable of.

Sherlock took a few deep breaths and looked back up at John, "sorry."

"Stop saying sorry, you've got nothing to apologise for." John carefully placed a hand on Sherlock's arm. "We'll get you help and everything will be ok."

It was difficult for John, sure enough, but he needed to be calm and strong. It was difficult because his best friend was a wreck and he doesn't know who did it or why, he figured it might have been Moriarty's men, maybe Sherlock's plan went wrong; he didn't know, he just wanted to help.

He dreaded to think what could cause such a strong-minded man like Sherlock to crumble into a fragile state like this.

"Were you remembering something?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment, "yes." He replied quietly, "but not much."

John waited for him to say something more, such as what he was remembering but he didn't, so John went back to making tea, not before making sure Sherlock was fine first.

"You said Lestrade wanted to speak to me, yes?" Sherlock asked sitting at the table.

"Yeah, he said he wanted to talk to Mycroft too."

"Mycroft..." Sherlock said absent-mindedly. John gawped at him, _his own brother...oh God. _

"Your brother," John replied, "you hate him."

"Why on earth do I hate my own brother?"

"Sibling rivalry," John quoted with the hand gesture of speech marks, "from the horse's mouth."

Sherlock chuckled softly and John smiled, for a moment he saw the old Sherlock.

* * *

**So I, I won't be the one,****  
****Be the one to leave this,****  
****In pieces**


	4. What You Want

John decided to let Mary have a lie in, she deserved it after being so understanding, he left a note on the fridge saying that he and Sherlock had gone to Scotland Yard and would be back later. After John and Sherlock had had a deep conversation on how much Sherlock remember, John was surprised to learn that he remembered more than he thought.

He discovered that Sherlock remembers a few cases - how he and John had dressed up like bloody ninjas – he remembered John's birthday, strangely enough, and how he planned his fake death, he told John in exact detail of how he survived the fall and how Molly had helped him cover up the documented section of the death. He'd said that he remembers jumping from the roof and he was in the cemetery when John was there but after that is just darkness. He mentioned that he remembered the odd moment here and there and a few faces, John assumed by the distant look in his eyes that those faces were probably somehow involved in his nightmares.

John suggested that maybe his mind was forgetting those things for a reason.

Greg was nodding continuously, intrigued as Sherlock spoke.

"-then it was all blurred. I was running from someone, next thing I know is I'm in a field." Sherlock finished.

"Well," Greg leaned back in his chair, "I'm impressed you can remember that much. When you came in yesterday, you didn't even recognise me let alone John."

"Good night's rest can do even the most difficult man a favour." John gave a quick smile.

Sherlock looked better than he did yesterday; he was less pale and shaken. John assumed the trauma stages were passing slowly but it was helping that he was remembering his past; it was probably less stressful than being shoved into a room of people you don't know.

There was a knock on the office room door and everybody turned to see Mycroft stepping into the room, his gaze lifting from the ground to Sherlock. He looked more or less shocked, John knew exactly how he felt.

"So this wasn't a prank." Mycroft said shortly giving a quick, small smile and walking forward towards Sherlock, still wearing his coat.

"Of course it wasn't, why would you think that?" Greg frowned.

"It's highly unlikely that somebody could come back from the dead, Inspector." Mycroft glanced at Greg, "that is, unless you are my brother, of course."

"I can hardly remember you," Sherlock looked up at his brother, "but I already get the impression that you're not happy with me."

"I'm not." The elder Holmes said lowly, "but I am, however, glad that you are alive."

"What, no hug?" Sherlock glared at his brother who frowned at him in puzzlement,

"You have lost your mind."

"Boys," John warned. Inwardly, he was happy that not all of Sherlock had changed. He still had the hate for his brother and although that wasn't usually something to be happy about, John was more than relieved about it. It gave a sense of normality in this huge, tangled mess.

Mycroft and Sherlock looked away from each other in defeat. Greg spoke up, "Sherlock was just telling us what he knows, how he faked his death and all that."

"I see," Mycroft said quietly, "and where have you been these past three years?" He looked back down at Sherlock.

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted not looking at his brother; this was an odd gesture. Mycroft could see through a lot of things, things that weren't his brother's fake death of course, but a majority of eye movements, facial or hand gestures made it obvious for the Holmes brother's to see your thoughts. John wasn't the brightest of people, but he examined the two brothers very well over the time he'd known them.

"That's strange." Mycroft commented, "Such a brilliant mind like yours not knowing something."

"Shut up Mycroft." Sherlock sneered, glaring at his brother again.

"So resentful, and it hasn't even been ten minutes." The older smiled and looked over to John, "may I have a word with you, John?"

John looked over to Greg, who nodded and stood from his chair and gestured for Sherlock to follow. Sherlock rolled his eyes and followed Greg from the room.

"What is it?" John asked when the door shut behind the two.

"You know there's something wrong him." Mycroft was staring into John, analyzing everything. John couldn't lie so he swallowed hard and looked anywhere but at Mycroft,

"Yes, I do. He even said he thinks so." He admitted, "I-well- last night, he had a pretty bad nightmare, he was screaming and I was so scared, I didn't know what to do – Mycroft I had to shout to wake him up and when I did, he gripped onto me like I was some sort of life support."

A hint of sympathy passed over Mycroft's face, John dismissed it as the lighting when he spoke with a thorough voice, "I see." He began and paused for a few moments, as if deciding what to say, "I assume you offered him help?"

"Yeah, I'm looking wherever I can. I just-God, I want to help him; I've never seen him so...so-he's broken. My best friend is a dark, broken shadow of himself." John shook his head and swallowed around the lump forming in his throat. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Mycroft standing in front of him with a somewhat gentle look in his eyes,

"You can help my brother; you're probably the only one who can." Mycroft said quietly, "Get him help and if there is anything you require, my number is speed dial three on your mobile." He passed John something and when he looked down, he saw it was his phone.

"How did you- oh never mind." He sighed shoving the phone in his pocket. "I never thought I'd been saying this but, thank you Mycroft."

Mycroft just gave a quick smile and turned towards the door, heading out of the room. Greg poked his head around the open door, "it's all right for you two to go now."

John thanked him and nodded. Sherlock was waiting outside for John when he left the office,

"What did he want?" Sherlock asked quietly as they walked down the corridor.

"Just...to know if you were ok."

Sherlock said nothing more.

John could feel the eyes of officers on them as they walked towards the exit; Sally had frozen when her eyes travelled to Sherlock as they walked by and Anderson practically threw himself out of the way when Sherlock passed through the doors to the lifts. John snickered when they were in the lift and Sherlock gave him a quizzical look.

"Their faces," John chuckled, "Christ I've never seen Sally so shocked, and it looked like Anderson had seen a bloody ghost."

"It's unlike you to enjoy other people's fear." A small smile crossed Sherlock's face as he looked forward.

"I have my moments." John smiled.

* * *

**So I don't know if any of you noticed, but Sherlock POV was only in chapter one. If you're confused, don't worry it's part of the plot. **

**Anyway, thank you all for liking my writing! I'm hoping to make this story go far :V**


	5. Demons

**Chapter 5: Demons**

_**Don't want to let you down, but I am hell bound, though this is all for you, don't want to hide the truth.**_

* * *

They had gotten back to the flat at about lunch time and John was happy to see that Mary had spent her day relaxing.

"Cosy?" John smiled walking through the door with Mary lying on the sofa. She smiled up at him and puckered her lips for an expected kiss, in which John obliged and then sat down in his chair. Sherlock soon joined him after removing his coat and scarf, sitting opposite John with a distant look on his face.

"I thought I'd enjoy my lie in." Mary gave a cheeky smile and sat up, "tea?"

"That would be wonderful," John grinned. Mary looked over to Sherlock in question.

The other man was staring off into the other direction looking dazed, "Sherlock?" John asked which caught the other man's attention,

"Yes?"

"Tea?"

"No, thank you." He replied quickly, "John, I should pay Molly a visit."

"You've only just gotten back; give it a day or two."

"Surely she would have noticed there was a problem with the plan if I didn't get back to her." Sherlock said to himself, dismissing John's suggestion, as per usual. "I didn't expect anything to go wrong so I-" He went silent, deep in thought.

John's phone beeped in his pocket, he glanced at Sherlock who was so distracted he didn't even notice the noise. John looked down at his phone to see a text message from Mycroft; he frowned,

_John, I highly doubt you have found a suitable psychiatrist for my brother already so I'll make a suggestion: Doctor Victor Trevor. _

_I've been acquainted with him already; he seems like a good man. I've given him your address and he should be arriving over the week._

_-MH_

Victor Trevor. Where had he heard that name before? It sounded so familiar, although he was certain he had never met anybody by that name.

Mary startled him out of his thoughts as he handed him a mug of tea. "Thank you," John smiled and took the mug, looking back over at Sherlock, "uh, Sherlock, Mycroft just texted me and he said he's found someone, someone professional, to help you."

"Excellent." Sherlock said quietly. John took a sip of his tea and nodded,

"Yes, Mycroft said he'll be over sometime this week."

Sherlock stood from his chair suddenly, "I have to speak to Molly."

"W-wait," John handed his mug to Mary and quickly stood as Sherlock chucked on his coat and scarf, "Sherlock, wait!"

Sherlock didn't pay attention to him and merely left the flat in silence. John cursed under his breath and gave Mary a quick kiss on the cheek before darting out the door, he caught the other man just as he was crossing the road and pulled him out of the way of an oncoming car.

John raised a hand to the driver as an apology and gripped Sherlock's arm tighter, "you could have been hurt for God's sake, I told you to wait," John ranted at the ex-detective, "And why do you need to speak to Molly now?"

"I can go by myself," Sherlock ripped his arm out of John's grip and met his vision, "stop following me."

John felt a shiver as he looked into those clear eyes, something difficult was seen in them and John had to quickly snap himself out of his thoughts as Sherlock began to walk away. "Oi," He stood in front of Sherlock, "I'm not letting you go anywhere by yourself."

"Am I too mentally unstable, is that it?" Sherlock clenched his jaw and shoved John out of the way, who stumbled backwards from the violent action. He watched as Sherlock walked away and ran a hand through his hair,

"For God's sake." He muttered and ran after said man, "what if you are." John said when he was close enough for Sherlock to hear.

The other man stopped in his steps and John continued, "what if you are too mentally unstable, what if you lash out at Molly like you did to me just now, what if you have some sort of...sort of breakdown, what then?" John could see how Sherlock's hands began to shake, "you are not okay, Sherlock, so either you start fucking listening to me or we're just going to end up at square one."

"I need to know what happened." Sherlock said quietly after moments of silence. John chewed the inside of his cheek,

"Then let me come with you."

John was hoping the other man would agree, he didn't want to have to tackle him to the ground in public. It would have been easy if he just said 'yeah, course, go anywhere you want Sherlock!' but that's just not the way to go about it. Trauma was terrifying for some, and with Sherlock's unpredictable mind, who knew what was going on inside of it. Nightmares, emotional detachment, violent outbursts, what next? John had to be careful, so when Sherlock slowly nodded and turned towards John, he felt relief wash over him.

They headed to Bart's whilst John sent Mary a text, letting her know they wouldn't be back for a while. John didn't expect her to be too happy about it, but there wasn't anything else he could do. He hoped she'd understand - he wouldn't be able to deal with all this if she wasn't around to help.

It didn't take them too long to get to Bart's, a taxi would have been easier but Sherlock insisted on walking. He'd also insisted on taking the stairs in the morgue, so here John was, breathing heavily and clutching onto the stair rail.

"Why...couldn't you...have just...taken the lift?" He asked in between deep breaths. Sherlock didn't reply but waited for him at the top of the stairs until he finally made his way to the top.

His legs felt like jelly when they walked through to the morgue, he took control of his breathing and looked around for Molly. He saw her with a clipboard standing in front of two bodies, she didn't look like she was writing anything, just doodling on the paper.

She obviously didn't notice the two approaching because when Sherlock said her name, she almost jumped four foot into the air and spun around, her mouth dropping. Her eyes looked between Sherlock and John and then back to Sherlock as she opened and closed her mouth, trying to form sentences.

"You're alive," She said finally, her voice high, "I-I can't believe it, I thought you were dead, you never..."

"Something happened to me after I faked my death. I don't know what; I was hoping you would be able to help." Sherlock's voice was oddly gentle towards Molly, then again, John wondered if he even remembered the girl properly.

Molly looked away from Sherlock quickly, "I-I, well..." She stammered, "You never came to see me."

"Molly," Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "there's something you're not telling me."

"Please just go," Her voice was high and strained as she turned away from the two of them.

Sherlock's hand hovered over her shoulder before he put it back by his side. He looked down and walked away, John following behind him. "Do you think it's Moriarty?" He asked once they'd left the morgue.

Sherlock was silent and kept his vision locked on the ground as they made their way back to Baker Street. John knew there was something unsaid, just as well as Sherlock knew. Molly would do anything for that man, _anything_, and it was sometimes sweet but other times it was a bit weird. She offered to dry clean his trousers once when she had spilled coffee over them, then stumbled over her words about how he didn't have to take them off there, but he could if he wanted to, then she just left the room with a red face and shaking hands.

John smiled at the memory, God he missed those times. Sitting in the morgue during a case, staying up until stupid o'clock in the morning looking at DNA samples until Sherlock gasped in realization and called John over – those were the times John would never forget.

"John I can't breathe." Sherlock said suddenly, his body frozen. John turned to him, seeing the panic on his face as he began breathing rapidly.

John placed a comforting hand on his arm and spoke softly, "breathe deeply, keep breathing deeply, it's a panic attack."

"A...a panic attack?" Sherlock asked doing as John said, his hands gripping John's arm violently.

"Yes, but it's all fine, I'm here." John placed his free hand on Sherlock's back and rubbed soothing circles, feeling the other man calm beneath his touch.

"Thank you," Sherlock let go of John's arm when he calmed fully,

"Its fine, have you ever had a panic attack before?"

"Never," The other man replied and began walking again,

John stood close beside him in case he had another, "there's a first time for everything. Do you know what caused it?"

Sherlock was silent as they approached the door to Baker Street, "no idea." He said quietly. John watched him as he stepped into the flat. _Moriarty, _John thought, _it was after I said Moriarty._


	6. Hands Like Glass

**-Contains self harm-**

* * *

A few days passed and Sherlock was doing all right. Although, there was the odd muttering now and again, and days where Sherlock would just lock himself in his bedroom and then there was the angry outbursts and- there was still _so much _John wanted to know, he wanted Sherlock to speak to him, he wanted to know what he could do to help Sherlock through his tough days. It all weighed down on John when he thought too much about it, when he laid in bed some nights unable to sleep thinking of just, well, _everything! _

Yesterday, everything had been perfectly normal – well as normal as it could get with Sherlock. Mary and John decided to go shopping and John had asked Sherlock to come along, just to get out of the flat seeing as he hadn't gone outside for about 83 hours, basically almost four days.

And even when he rejected the offer, John made him go anyway, he wasn't too chuffed about being dragged around Sainsbury's with old people knocking into him and toddlers throwing tantrums down almost every aisle, but he seemed content with just doing a normal, daily thing.

"_I want strawberry jam, I hate blackberry." Mary grimaced looking at the different flavours of Jam, "where is the damn strawberry?" _

"_Can't you just stick with apricot, I thought you liked it." John asked chucking bread into the trolley. _

"_It's not strawberry, I want strawberry." _

_Sherlock appeared holding a jar of strawberry jam and handed it to Mary, "where did you find that?" Mary looked a little more surprised at the voluntary interaction from Sherlock._

"_Top shelf, I can't blame you for not seeing it." _

_Mary put a hand on her hip, "was that a height joke?" _

"_Perhaps," Sherlock's lips quirked in to a slight smile and Mary gasped with a smile,_

"_You cheeky sod, not everyone can be six foot bloody god knows what, you know." _

_John watched the scene in front of him with an amused expression, the two people who meant the world to him where right there and he could have not been happier._

And it was true, he could not have been happier, although it was different having Sherlock around after so long, it took a lot of getting used to. Sometimes John would check up on him in the night to make sure he was still there, it was only one night when Sherlock had spoken up when John was about to shut the door to his bedroom.

"_I'm not going to wonder off in the night," _

"_I know," John replied, feeling a tad awkward for being caught, "I just...I can't believe you're here." _

"_Neither can I." Sherlock had said then gone silent. John was going to speak again but decided to just let the man sleep. _

Among everything, it was also scary. Having your friend who was supposed to be dead living with you, not knowing where he's been, what he's been doing, who he's been with – it made John sound like an obsessed housewife but he didn't care, the main priority at the moment was Sherlock, and however ridiculous that sounded to Sherlock himself, didn't matter.

But John knew something was going to happen, it all too...too grand to be true. Sherlock hadn't spoken about his thoughts, his memories, _anything _for these past few days, he was bottling it up and something was bound to go wrong.

John could not have been any more right if he tried.

* * *

It was windy Tuesday afternoon and John had returned home from work to find Mary sitting in the living room watching telly peacefully. He heard the tap running in the bathroom, "where's Sherlock?" He asked putting his keys on the table,

"He's in the bathroom,"

John did a quick scan of the hallway and kitchen, "How long's he been in there?"

Mary paused and looked up at John, a small amount of realization flickering across her eyes, "ten or fifteen minutes."

John felt his heart drop and he darted to the bathroom door, "Sherlock," he knocked.

No reply. _Shit. _

"Sherlock!" He knocked the door more desperately; he cursed and stepped back from the door, gesturing for Mary to as well. He rammed himself against the door, shoulder first and the lock from the inside broke. John stopped Mary from going into the bathroom and rushed in, his body freezing at the ex-detective sitting on the bathroom floor, his forearm red raw with deep cuts.

"Oh fuck," John breathed. It was as if Sherlock didn't even hear him just burst in; he was just sitting there staring at the blood, _oh Jesus the blood_. _Fuck fuck fuck! _

He knelt on the floor in front of Sherlock, "what the hell have you done," he muttered gently taking hold of the other man's arm and inspecting the wounds, they were bleeding but they wouldn't need stitches, there was no serious damage – John felt the smallest amount of relief rush over him. He turned to the doorway and saw Mary, a hand over her mouth.

"I'm sorry, oh God I'm so sorry," She said, her voice heavy with emotion.

"Its fine," John soothed, he didn't know who he was comforting, probably all of them. He turned back to Sherlock and his lips formed a thin line, "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

When he didn't reply, John decided to get him up off the floor and clean his cuts anyway. He saw the pair of scissors on the floor; he knew this was coming, he knew it from the moment Sherlock stepped foot inside the flat, this breakdown, where everything just collapsed in on Sherlock. John should have kept a closer eye on him and then maybe this wouldn't have happened.

John sat Sherlock at the kitchen table as Mary hovered in the doorway and saw the other man's hands begin to shake, "I'm sorry." He said quietly.

"Don't," John said sternly wiping at the blood, "I don't want you to apologise."

"Stop it." Sherlock grabbed John's wrist before he could dab the wounds with disinfectant, John looked down at the hand on his wrist – it had been so long since he'd felt Sherlock's touch.

"I need to clean them," When Sherlock didn't let go John sighed, "The last thing you need is for these to get infected."

Sherlock stood from the chair abruptly and went to walk to his bedroom; John worked quickly to stop him by grabbing his uninjured arm, feeling frustrated. "If you think I'm leaving you on your own, you can think again."

"Get off me!" Sherlock yelled and pushed John away,

"Stop shutting me out Sherlock, I'm trying to help you!" John shouted. He knew it wouldn't help if he raised his voice but this was all just too much. He couldn't keep it all in anymore, the stress, the anger, the fear, the worry – it was all just _too much_.

"I can't keep doing this, I can't keep...seeing you like this, I need to know what's going on, you need to talk to me for me to understand because I have no idea what's going on in your head." John said with voice under control again.

Sherlock was silent and his eyes were downcast before he sat back down at the kitchen table with his forearm held out. John took this as a sign to continue cleaning his cuts, so he sat down and began to dab the cuts with disinfectant.

"I don't want to be like this." Sherlock said after some time of silence, "I don't want to...I..." He went silent again and took a deep breath, "I don't know what's wrong with me - there is something...something in my head."

John listened intently while wrapping his arm in a bandage. "I didn't think, I just- I found the escape, the release - the endorphins that just acted as a barrier from...from everything."

When John knew that Sherlock was finished talking, he nodded and tied the bandage gently. This was...this was _different._ It was one thing to have a problem and know about it, but it was a whole other thing to admit it. Sherlock was trying, God he was trying and it hurt John so much that there wasn't anything he could do except sit there and listen, stand there and watch his best friend fall to pieces. It _hurt_.

He gently placed his hand over the bandaged arm and smiled when Sherlock looked up, "I'm here with you, no matter how many times you push me away, no matter how many times you break, even if you smack me one for being an over-caring, soppy arse, I am still going to be here."

Mary silently placed her hand on Sherlock's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze when Sherlock looked up at her. John could see him visibly relax into the touch; he knew that Sherlock needed some stability, and hell, if John needed to be that stability, he would.


	7. The Catalyst

Forty-eight hours since the breakdown and John was already anxious as to when this 'Doctor' was going to turn up. Sherlock had to be constantly watched, the nightmares and violent outbursts John could deal with, but when the ex-detective would close in on himself and mutter things, John began to worry greatly. He even called Mycroft and explained the situation, asking him to put some of his 'men' outside of the flat in case Sherlock would do 'something'.

Hearing Mycroft's concerned voice over the phone worried him, it was somewhat a sign of how serious things had become. He never knew what Sherlock was saying let alone what he was thinking, it was difficult to just watch such a brilliant man become a shadow of himself.

It was almost like Sherlock was driving himself mad.

So when Mrs. Hudson came upstairs with a male in tow, John couldn't have felt more relieved. The man was tall, dark haired slicked back with very deep green eyes. He was wearing a navy pinstriped suit and looked very, very professional to John. He didn't doubt this man for a second.

"You must be John Watson," The man grinned and held out his hand, "I'm Victor, Victor Trevor." Victor had the hint of an accent to his voice, it sounded more or less French.

"Pleasure to meet you," John smiled shaking his hand. Victor looked over at Sherlock resting his head on his knees in the chair,

"I assume that's Mr. Holmes?"

"Yeah...he's been like that for hours." John smiled awkwardly and approached Sherlock, he tapped him lightly on the shoulder; Sherlock lifted his head immediately and met John's gaze. His eyes then travelled over to Victor's and he had a hint of recognition on his face,

"Sherlock," Victor smiled widely, "It's been a long time."

John paused, looking between the two. Victor and Sherlock knew each other? John looked back down at Sherlock who now rose from his chair, a questionable look on his face. Well, maybe he didn't quite know who Victor was.

"You, uh, you two know each other?"

"Yes, we studied in university together. I heard about what happened, how tragic, amnesia is the uncatchable plague." He said with a warm smile, holding his hand out for Sherlock to shake it. Sherlock seemed to pause, examining the man with his eyes before taking his hand slowly and shaking it.

_That's right; Sherlock had mentioned him a few times in the past_. John nodded to himself; he turned his attention back to Sherlock,

"Right, I'll leave you two alone." John smiled. Sherlock glanced at him and he could see a certain fear in the ex-detective's eyes. "It'll be all right," John comforted touching Sherlock's arm gently, glad to see him not recoil from the action.

When Sherlock nodded, John smiled again and left the two to speak in peace. Mary should be on her lunch break, he thought to visit her for the hour.

* * *

"Oh hello," Mary smiled, surprised to see John waiting outside of the florist.

"Thought we could grab something to eat? The psychiatrist turned up today." John kissed her on the cheek and they began walking.

"That's good, I'm glad." Mary linked her arm with John's and they found a nice cafe soon enough. After they both sat down, John looked up from the menu to see Mary staring at him,

"Is everything alright?" He asked closing the menu.

Mary seemed to contemplate her words; John knew exactly what it was. It was Sherlock, he knew he would be forced to choose, just like before with all of his other girlfriends. God, he really hoped that wasn't the case, he loved Mary so, so much but he also loved Sherlock – platonically of course – _please don't make me choose. _

"I'm pregnant."

John froze, his body malfunctioning. He knew he needed to say something, Mary would think he was upset. Was he upset? No, no of course he wasn't, Mary was pregnant. Mary...was pregnant. He thought the sentence through a few times and felt a particularly warm feeling in his chest. Mary was pregnant!

He smiled and leaned back in his chair, "wow...I...are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure, I double checked." Mary chuckled, "are you pleased?"

"Pleased? God, Mary, I'm...I'm on cloud bloody nine."

John could see the tears in Mary's eyes and took her hands in his, she let out a sob of happiness, "I'm sorry, I just-"

"Its okay, its fine," He kissed her hands. "We're going to be parents."

"Yeah," She sobbed again with a smile, "four weeks."

Yes, oh yes, John Watson was a very happy man.

Mary had to go back to work after their lunch, it was difficult for John to leave her after the news she'd given him and he just wanted to curl up on the sofa with her, completely relaxed with no worries in the world.

Except, he did have worries and so did Mary.

* * *

By the time John had gotten back to the flat, Victor had already left and John was surprised to see Sherlock plucking the strings on his violin in front of the mirror. The melodic tune filled John's ears and gave him a dark sense of nostalgia; he missed the way things used to be.

"How did it go?" He asked hanging his coat up on the back of the door. Sherlock seemed to jump slightly and turned to face John,

"Fine...It was...fine." He turned back towards the mirror and continued plucking at the violin strings. Except he wasn't _looking _into the mirror, he was just staring ahead. John was unnerved at the action, of course after one session, things wouldn't be perfectly fine already, but John was hoping to see _some_ progress.

"Feeling any better?"

"I still don't remember what happened, John." Sherlock said quietly, sounding distressed.

"These things take time and maybe its better that you don't."

Sherlock nodded and looked down at the violin in his hands, saying nothing else. John took this as a hint to leave him to his own devices; he did wonder what the other man was thinking, as always, he couldn't help it.

* * *

**I decided this story needed some happiness put in! But you know, once there's happiness, you gotta double the sadness uvu ~**

**I didn't show the scene where Mrs. Hudson sees Sherlock because I don't grasp her character very well, so I felt it to be more comfortable if I skipped that part. Sorry! ~ **


	8. This And That

A close eye was kept on Sherlock as of recent, even if he insisted he was fine, John wouldn't back down. Mary had even volunteered to take a few days off work while John worked; unfortunately Sherlock had overheard the conversation and complained about being watched like a child.

"_I'm grateful for your concern but I'm sure I can cope on my own." _

"_I don't want to argue with you about this, Sherlock." John had said sternly. He wasn't making the same mistake of not looking after Sherlock again._

_When Sherlock went to reply, John held up his hand, "fine. I'll get Mycroft to babysit you." _

"_No, don't you dare." Sherlock warned,_

"_Then shut up and sit down." John felt satisfied when Sherlock did as he was told, "you're not a child, I know that, but until I can be certain that you're...you're not a threat to yourself, I can't take any risks." _

_Sherlock was silent as he looked down at his hands on the kitchen table. "I am capable of controlling my own mind." He replied softly, John chewed the inside of his cheek. _

"_We both know that's not entirely true." _

_And nothing more was said between them. _

It wasn't true, and they both knew it. Once Sherlock got into that darkened mindset, there wasn't anything stopping him from doing something he would later regret. That was severe depression and even Victor had mentioned to John about it when he'd come home early near the end of a session with Sherlock. It was difficult to just nod and say, 'yeah, yeah I understand'. To hear that Sherlock Holmes, the genius, the mastermind, the brilliant Sherlock Holmes had depression was...well, it was tough, he couldn't imagine how the other man felt. John was a medical man, he knew depression well and he had suffered from it too, out of every single person he hated he would never wish it upon any of them.

It felt like strings were constantly pulling you down, never letting you go. When you were having a good day, when everything seemed fine, there it would be, those thin strings coming back to drag you down, voices whispering in your ear, constantly reminding you why you have depression in the first place. They were thin and no matter how hard John tried, he never saw them, only felt them. God it was awful.

He wondered if Sherlock had the same experience.

There was a knock at the door and Mycroft stepped through, "good afternoon," He smiled briefly. Sherlock shot a glance at him before returning to the book in his hands.

"Hello Mycroft," Mary threw a fake smile to the man, "I didn't know you were coming over."

"I didn't know you would be here." He faked a smile back to Mary and John felt a heavy tension fill the room.

"Right, I'll, uh, I'll put the kettle on." He made sure to walk in between the vision of the two. Mary had voiced how she wasn't too fond of Mycroft, he was a snob according her and from the moment she had met him, she immediately disliked him.

She also mentioned how she hated that he just turned up uninvited when he clearly wasn't wanted. John didn't want to sound against her so he just nodded, when really he only knew that when Mycroft turned up unexpected, the elder Holmes wanted to speak with John about Sherlock.

John needed to find a way to get Sherlock and Mary out of the house so he could talk with Mycroft. He looked in the fridge and took out the bottle of milk, pouring the rest down the sink. "Oh bugger," he faked a sigh, "we're out of milk, Mary could you nip to the shop and get some more?"

"Do it yourself you lazy sod."

John nudged his head towards Sherlock and mouthed 'please'. Mary looked over at the man engulfed in his book and nodded in understanding. "All right," she stood from her chair, "come on, let's go."

Sherlock looked confused, "why do I need to come?"

"I like your company, now come on."

Sherlock looked between John and Mycroft then finally shut his book, standing from his chair and grabbing his coat.

"We'll be back in a bit." Mary smiled as they left the flat.

Then John and Mycroft were alone.

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure?" John sat down and Mycroft sat in the chair opposite him, crossing his legs as he spoke,

"How is my brother?"

"He's...fine. Better than he was the other day." John looked away at the memory. _God, all of that blood. _

"I assume you're keeping him close." Mycroft's stare, however, didn't falter.

"Of course I am, well, until he's fine again."

"'_Until he's fine again,'_" Mycroft quoted, his forehead creasing in surprise, "how long do you think that will be, John?"

"I don't know, as long as it takes."

"You're prepared to take that risk?"

"What 'risk'? There isn't a 'risk'."

Mycroft just nodded and looked down at his umbrella, "I see."

John tried to bite his tongue but failed when his anger got the better of him, "for his brother, you really don't have a lot of faith in him."

"I don't." Mycroft admitted, "He is my brother after all. I have his medical records."

John paused, "sorry, his medical records? Is there something wrong?"

Mycroft said nothing more and he stood from the chair, "nothing to be concerned about."

"Then why bring it up?" John was getting a little more than agitated; Mycroft could be such an arse.

"I'll be in touch." Mycroft called out as he shut the flat door behind him. John sat there in puzzlement; he could feel a mixture of emotions overcome him, fear, worry, confusion.

Worry was the main one, and it chewed on his gut like a piranha.


	9. Impaired

**I decided to upload the last chapter and this chapter together because they are quite short.**

* * *

Greg had stopped by out of the blue just as John was putting on his coat to nip to the shop. He was hoping to get some peace from the banter between Mary and Sherlock – he didn't even know Sherlock could _do _banter.

"Oh, Greg," Mary smiled, "It's been a while."

"Yeah," Greg looked uncomfortable, "I'm not staying long, I just came to talk to Sherlock actually."

"What is it, Lestrade?" Sherlock spoke up from his seat, looking up at Lestrade and pausing, "there's a case. You want me to come back."

John wanted to jump in between the two and decline for Sherlock, he wasn't stable enough to go back to work; he needed at least a month before he could even be considered to work.

"Just for this one," Greg said quickly, "after...you know, my boss doesn't think it's a good idea that you come back so soon."

_Well, at least we agree on that._ John thought.

"No." Sherlock said simply.

Greg paused, "well, why not?"

"You're still unsure about me."

"Do you expect me to suddenly understand all of this?" Greg frowned at Sherlock who was looking away, "I still can't believe you're alive. You're found in the middle of nowhere, you don't remember a thing about what happened in the past three years that you were supposedly _dead_ and you think everyone can wrap their head around it?"

"I don't think that at all." Sherlock turned his head back to Greg and look insulted. Greg was about to reply before John stepped in, knowing it was for the best,

"Arguing won't help anything." He said firmly, looking between the two men glaring at each other.

"Please Sherlock," Greg sighed. "We need you."

Sherlock was silent, still glaring at Greg.

"Fine." He said finally, standing from his chair.

Greg looked more than relieved, John, however, was anything but. He couldn't force Sherlock to refuse the case, so he guess he would just have to tag along and make sure nothing goes wrong. God help him if it did.

* * *

"-And so, in conclusion, the mother is the murderer." Sherlock finished.

Greg looked more than surprised and was about to speak when Sherlock spoke up again, "thought I'd lost my skill along with my memories?"

"To be honest, yeah, I did." Greg admitted rubbing the back of his neck. Sherlock's eyes seemed to soften and he looked back down at the three bodies on the floor.

"She couldn't afford to keep them alive, so she-" He paused suddenly, staring onwards, almost as if he was buffering. John and Greg shared a glance at each other before turning back to Sherlock,

"She 'what'?" Greg asked,

"She sold them." Sherlock said distantly, "then she was full of regret – guilt - she became depressed from the realization of what she had done."

John stepped closer to Sherlock, sensing something was very wrong. His breathing was becoming rapid and John could see another panic attack coming along, he glanced at Greg to see him looking at John with a questioning expression.

Sherlock's hands began to shake, "John," he whispered suddenly.

John placed a gentle hand on his arm, which was soon gripped tightly in Sherlock's hands, "I'm here - it's all right, just breathe." He soothed, seeing Sally staring at them from the corner of his eye. John wanted to shout at her, but he wasn't angry at her, he was just worried and needing to let it out on someone.

"Is he alright?" Sally asked approaching them.

"Yes, he's fine," John lied, looking up at the panicked expression on the other man's face as he stared down at one of the bodies.

"He doesn't look-"

"Yes, I know!" John hissed at her and she jumped at the outburst, John ignored her surprised expression and turned back to Sherlock, "what's wrong?"

"I-I need to leave." Sherlock stammered through panicked breaths.

"Okay, we'll go," John could feel the grip on his arm tighten, almost painfully but he didn't complain.

"Greg, I need to get him away from here." John looked to Greg with a worried expression, the other man nodded,

"I'll come round later." He said quietly, patting John's shoulder, who in return nodded and led Sherlock away from the crime-scene.

The taxi ride was silent; Sherlock had calmed down after a while and was now staring out of the cab window. John had been asking if he was okay almost every five minutes and received a small, simple nod in reply.

He knew this would happen, as always. It was a terrible idea, a few days since Sherlock's been back and so much had already been proven – how unstable the other man actually was. Sherlock had agreed to help with the case, and he had solved it, but it was just that little part afterwards, something that John didn't see that Sherlock did.

He wasn't going to push Sherlock to tell him, John assumed he wouldn't anyway regardless of how many times John asked – he'd speak when he wanted to. Riding it out was all John could do, hoping that Victor would be able to help them through it, whatever _it _was.

When they had gotten back to the flat, Sherlock had gone straight to his bedroom. John wanted to follow him, see if he was really all right but he knew that would only make things worse. As he had thought before, riding it out was all he could do.


	10. Echo

Three weeks passed and John could not have been happier. Mary's pregnancy was going smoothly, minus the mood swings and cravings at three o'clock in the morning, it took a lot of John's time looking after her and making sure she was fine, even if Mary insisted she was.

Sherlock's psychotherapy was going perfectly well with three sessions a week, he could see how much it changed the other man; he wasn't so...so distant. He was, almost, like the Sherlock he once knew. Of course, there were things John couldn't see, like Sherlock's memories or thoughts, but by the looks of it, and by the progression Victor was making, things seemed almost normal.

Greg had thanked Sherlock for solving the case and Sherlock only nodded. John and Greg had agreed not to let Sherlock go back to Scotland Yard for some time, not until they were certain everything was, well, not like before.

John was in the kitchen whilst Mary and Sherlock were watching television. Sherlock was obviously paying attention because he was shouting at the TV and correcting whoever was speaking. He could hear Mary laughing at some of the insults spouting out of Sherlock's mouth and a smile grew across John's face as he poured water into three mugs.

Sherlock seemed to take a liking to Mary and Mary certainly enjoyed Sherlock's company, this gave John a sense of ease knowing they would get along just fine. He hadn't told Sherlock that the couple were expecting a baby, he didn't quite know _how_. It was obvious things would change drastically, they would need to find a bigger flat – or they could extend this one, John didn't really want to move out, 221B held too many memories; memories he wants to pass on to his children. And he'd definitely prefer it if Sherlock was there to back him up if his kids didn't believe it.

* * *

Mary headed off to work and Sherlock insisted that he go back to the morgue and try to speak to Molly again. John was about to grab his coat when Sherlock told him he wanted to go alone and that he would be fine, so John agreed, things were getting better so it was only fair that they all acted normal. Well, as normal as they could be.

The flat to the door opened and John turned around, assuming it was Sherlock who might have forgotten something. He was surprised to see Victor Trevor standing there, "I hope you don't mind, your Landlady let me in."

"No, no it's, uh, fine." John frowned, "Sherlock's not here, his appointment isn't until-"

"Actually, it's you I wanted to speak to. If you don't mind." Victor sounded serious; John swallowed hard and nodded,

"Yeah, that's...fine, sit down. Do you want a tea, coffee?"

"No, thank you, I'm only here to talk." Victor said sitting down in Sherlock's chair, although he was leaning forward calmly, John knew there was something wrong.

"All right," John sat down opposite him and also leaned forward in his chair, "What's the problem?"

Victor seemed to take a moment, as if he was contemplating his next set of words. "John," Victor had a low tone to his voice which made John worry, "I don't think I can help Sherlock anymore."

John frowned again, "why not?"

"He's...he's been saying some very disturbing things, John, things I can't even believe."

John's blood ran cold, "Like what?" His mind went back to three weeks ago when Mycroft mentioned Sherlock's medical records.

"It goes against the patient-doctor confidentiality, but you know him far more better than I do so perhaps you could help him more," Victor began, shuffling forward in his seat. John scoffed,

"I hardly know him at all anymore to be honest." He said quietly, Victor carried on regardless.

"Among the worst of his reports, he mentions memories of rape and murder...he said he worked in an illegal brothel and he _enjoyed _what he did. He is very, _very_ disturbed."

John felt a shiver go up his spine as his eyes went wide, "no, he...that's not Sherlock, he wouldn't say those things."

"But he did, John, and you need think about everyone's safety before his." Victor warned, "You said it yourself, you hardly know him anymore, God knows what he's capable of; what he's done."

"But those things," John shook his head, unbelieving – Sherlock would never... "He's a good man."

Victor reached out and placed a comforting hand on John's shoulder, "I'm sorry, John, there's nothing more I can do for him."

John swallowed hard, suddenly uncomfortable. Not Sherlock, _not Sherlock_. Not his best friend Sherlock.

"Please," John tried to keep his voice under control, "Mycroft recommended you - there must be _something_ you can do."

Victor looked down, "I can see him again and explain about his physical progress, which is evidently fairly good. However, his mental progress is...is worsening."

John put his head in his hands and took a deep breath. "I thought...I thought everything was fine, I thought he was okay, I can't- I just-" John broke off and ran a hand through his hair, "a _brothel!?_"

"He told me quite a bit of information which, unfortunately, I am unable to share. He remembers much more than he did two weeks ago." Victor's voice was distant in John's mind, like an echo. It just kept repeating and getting further away each time.

"All right...All right." John breathed in sharply, "you said you'll see him again?"

"I'll do what I can, John. I can't promise anything."

"Thank you." John stood from his chair when Victor rose up and held out a hand; John took it firmly and shook it. He was extremely thankful for Victor; he was blinded by Sherlock's perfectly normal behaviour that he would have never guessed. It was so difficult to overcome, so surreal in John's head that when Victor left, he fell back into his chair and sat there for hours just staring at the window.

_How...How could I not know!? A brothel and murder and rape- No, John, don't even think about that, you don't want to so don't. Oh God this is a mess, just when I thought things were fine. If Victor can't help Sherlock, God knows what I'm going to do. _

The worst part is, John doesn't know exactly what Sherlock's been telling Victor, all he knows is that it's apparently disturbing – and for a psychiatrist to use the term 'disturbing' is self-explanatory. Disturbing could mean anything and John had a habit of thinking about the worst case scenario.

His thoughts became distant when Mycroft stepped through the door.

* * *

**Updates from now on (on all of my stories) will be slow because my dad's laptop is very broken, and until he gets it fixed or actually finally gives in and buys me a new one, I won't be able to edit my fanfictions. I'm currently working on them on my phone and I can tell you, it is _really _difficult. **

**That's all my lovelys! Until next time! ~ **


	11. Golden

_**And I saw God cry in the reflection of my enemies, and all the lovers with no time for me, and all the mothers raised their babies, to stay away from me.**_

* * *

"Wow I'm popular today," John said sarcastically.

"Good evening." Mycroft sat down opposite John.

_Evening? _John looked over at the clock and sat up straight. _7pm, _"Jesus Christ, I lost track of time."

"You've been sitting there for four hours, John." Mycroft commented pointing to the creases in his shirt, "You look rather distraught, why?"

John thought about telling Mycroft, whether it would be a good idea or not. "Victor came to see me today."

"Oh?" Mycroft sounded genuinely interested, "but he's Sherlock's psychiatrist, not yours."

John stared at Mycroft, "haha, funny." He clenched his jaw, "no, he came to talk to me about Sherlock, actually."

When Mycroft didn't reply, John continued, "Yeah, apparently he can't help him anymore."

Mycroft frowned and John was surprised, _wow, an actual facial expression from the straight faced arse. You fucking know what I'm going to say. _

"Why ever not?"

"You blood know why not," John spat, "you know and you didn't even think to tell me."

Mycroft sighed, "I only know a small amount of information, John. It has been a long time."

John regarded the sensitive look in Mycroft's eyes and took a deep breath, "he says...he says he's too mentally unstable."

"And Mr. Trevor cannot help him?"

"No, apparently not; he said he's going to see Sherlock again and explain to him a few things, I don't know, I wasn't listening."

Mycroft was silent for a long time, looking down at his hands in his lap. "Did he say what is wrong with my brother?" His voice was low, almost concerned.

"No. I don't know, speak to Victor because...because this all too much. You said I was the only who could help him, Mycroft, and I can't. The things he's done...He's not the man he was, not even an inch of him is and that...that hurts." John felt tears on his face but he really didn't care. Fuck his pride, fuck everything, he couldn't handle all of this, he needed Mary here, he needed to just hold Mary and wish everything would just go back to how it was – to how he thought it was.

Mycroft didn't say anything more, usually John would have inwardly laughed at the victory of shutting Mycroft up, but he didn't want to, he couldn't laugh at anything because everything was just so fucked up.

"I see." The older Holmes said quietly, John couldn't establish the emotion in his voice. He supposed it must have been hard to hear that your own brother is a disturbed mess. "I will seek other help for him. In the meantime, please...Look after him."

"I can't promise anything. I mean, I thought I was doing an alright job but obviously I buggered that up."

"I know my brother, he cares an awfully large amount for you John and he wouldn't do anything to harm you." Mycroft paused, "well, unintentionally harm you."

"I feel flattered." John snorted and Mycroft smiled slightly,

"You should, he's very resentful."

They shared a small amount of humour before Mycroft got up to leave, "Let me know if anything changes. I'll be in touch."

John gave him a small wave as he left and slouched back in his chair.


	12. Whisper

_**And I knew that the lights of the city were too heavy for me.**_

* * *

Sherlock was scanning him; he could feel it, those dark eyes over him, roaming him and reading his thoughts.

"John?" He asked stepping forward cautiously.

The last thing John wanted was to call attention to what Sherlock had said to Victor in confidence, so he decided to push it aside and look at the man giving him a quizzical look and give him a smile, "how did it go with Molly?"

Sherlock paused, something flickering in his eyes, "fine."

"Did you find out what happened?" John sat up straight and stared down the man taking off his coat, purposely avoiding eye contact. Sherlock knew something, he had found something out and John bloody knew it.

Sherlock avoided the question and laid on the sofa, closing his eyes. John was going to leave it, God he wanted to just leave it at that, but he couldn't. This wasn't making sense, none of it!

"Oi, what did Molly say?" John prodded as calmly as he could manage. Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at him,

"Nothing." He said quietly, "She doesn't know anything."

"I'm not stupid." John stood from his chair and crossed his arms; Sherlock's gaze didn't falter.

"Shouldn't Mary be considering maternity leave?"

John chewed the inside of his gum, of course Sherlock would know! "I was going to tell you, I just didn't know how."

"Its fine," Sherlock shrugged sitting up, "I don't think of you any differently for not telling me."

"That's...good, then." John rubbed the back of his neck, "now are you going to tell me what Molly said or what?"

Sherlock was silent again and stood from the sofa, he was obviously headed to his bedroom. John was about to sigh and just give up, Sherlock can be so stubborn when he wants to be.

Then Sherlock stopped and spoke, his voice heavy and low, "John...what if...what if I had done something horrid."

John felt his stomach drop, "What do you mean?"

"What if I had taken someone's life for my own?"

"Don't say things like that, Sherlock."

"I remember it John, I remember punching men until they stopped moving-I remember boys no older than ten screaming for their mothers-"

"Sherlock," John stopped him, not wanting to face the truth. So what Victor said was true...it was definitely true. Sherlock was just some...deranged psycho. _He's still your best friend. _

_No. _John thought, _no he's not, he's not the same man. _

Sherlock turned to him slowly, looking down, "I can remember it John and it's terrifying. What I did...what I've done."

"I know," John said quietly and Sherlock looked up suddenly. "I know because Victor told me."

Sherlock looked shocked – hell - that was an understatement, he looked slightly betrayed and then something else crossed his face, something John couldn't quite figure out before his face became emotionless. He turned away from John again and started towards his bedroom again.

"Sherlock, we need to talk about th-" But the door shut before John could finish. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"_You need think about everyone's safety before his." _Victor's voice crossed his mind,_ "You said it yourself, you hardly know him anymore, God knows what he's capable of; what he's done." _

"_He says he misses it." _

"_There's nothing more I can do for him." _

"_God-fucking-dammit!_" John shouted as his fist hit the wall. Nothing made sense.

_What's happened to the man I once knew? The man who was my best friend? _

He heard Mary clear her throat and he looked over to see her with a sympathetic look on her face, "what's happened?"

John sighed gently and looked down at his injured knuckles, "it's...it's a long story."

"I've got the day off tomorrow so we've got all night." She came forward and held John's hand, "if you want to talk about it, that is."

John nodded and placed his head on her shoulder, breathing in her perfume mixed with the scent of the outdoors. It calmed him enough to talk about what happened, and he was surprised to see Mary's face cease to falter from her understanding expression.

When he'd finished, she nodded and looked down at the floor, sighing calmly, "Victor shouldn't have told you that."

"I needed to know."

"No, you didn't, it was wrong for him to tell you, what Sherlock says is supposed to be strictly confidential." Mary shook her head, "I can see why Sherlock didn't want to say anymore, do you know how he must be feeling?"

"Mary, I know," John ran a hand through his hair – he'd been doing that a lot lately – and took a deep breath, "the point still stands that there is something seriously wrong with him."

"You're talking about him like he's some sort of deranged child, John." Mary's voice was full of anger and John knew a mood swing was coming along. Her and this... 'Recent' Sherlock had gotten on so well, of course she was going to see it another way.

"He murdered people, Mary, he _raped_ people – he _misses _it."

"Do you know the full story?" Mary hissed and John shut up. He didn't. "Exactly." She pointed at him, "You two are friends and he needs help, now either you support him or things will be just as they were before. He will go off the rails. You promised you would be there for him, John, do not let him down."

Mary was right. God, she was always right. Sherlock needed his help, regardless what Victor said – Victor was meant to be _helping _Sherlock, not making things worse.

"I'm sorry." John said after a moment of silence.

"It's not me you should be apologizing to." Mary stood up from her seat and rummaged through her bag before taking out a leaflet, "This is a support group my colleague suggested, that Victor is dodgy."

John took the leaflet and looked at it roughly before thanking Mary and taking her hand gently, "thank you, for all of this, I honestly don't know how I would cope."

"Its part of my job as a fiancé, you see." She smiled warmly.

"And you're very good at your job." John smiled back and pecked her on the cheek.


	13. In My Veins

**One more chapter to go.**

**Getting rather fun, isn't it?**

* * *

**_All that you rely on; and all that you can fake,_**

**_We'll leave you in the morning, and find you in the day._**

* * *

Sherlock was silent for a few days; John would regularly check on him and just find him lying in his bed, seemingly asleep. He'd tried talking to Sherlock and apologizing for what he said, but Sherlock just ignored him.

After an hour of trying to get the other man to at least drink something, he gave up and left, keeping the bedroom door open as a caution. John had fucked this, hadn't he? He had really messed with Sherlock's mind again and that terrified him. Mycroft had said that Sherlock cared a lot for John, and to have somebody you care about find something like _that _out must have hurt. It must have hurt a lot and John wished he could have swallowed his words.

"He'll come round." Mary's comforting words reached John as he sat in his chair, head in his hands.

"I am officially the worst friend." John muttered, "I wanted to help him, but instead I just...I judged him."

"We all make mistakes."

"This isn't a mistake though, is it? This is an intentional thing that I did, and I was aware I was doing it – I didn't even think twice, I just got so...so scared and disturbed by what Victor told me."

John wouldn't admit it, but he was also scared for Mary.

"It all comes down to Victor. He shouldn't have told you, end of." Mary sighed and leaned forward in the chair, placing her soft hands on John's legs, "please, stop blaming yourself."

"What am I supposed to do?" John asked looking into her eyes.

"Wait for Victor to end the sessions and get Sherlock some _real _help."

"Mycroft-"

"I have had it with that man too, he is snobby and ridiculously dressed, that umbrella gets everything wet and his voice is as dull as a down bell." Mary ranted suddenly. John stared at her before letting out a laugh,

"I'm serious, John, this is no joke, that man is something else."

"That's what I'm laughing about." John chuckled and placed his hands over Mary's, "Mycroft was only trying to help. He does care for Sherlock a lot."

Mary was silent and looked slightly unimpressed. Her eyes then travelled to the kitchen and John followed her vision to see Sherlock standing there, fully dressed with a dark look over his face.

"You okay?" John asked feeling those eyes bore into him; he shivered invisibly.

"What exactly did Victor say to you?" Sherlock's voice was low, it sounded..._different. _

"He said..." John looked at Mary and she nodded, "he said that you had a position in an illegal brothel. That you missed being there."

"And in those moments you doubted me, didn't you."

"I didn't-"

"You were disgusted. You couldn't believe that I would do that, yet you realized that from how I had been acting, it was a possibility."

"Sherlock, liste-"

"You're scared of me." Sherlock had an amused expression on his face. John stared at him, his breath caught in his throat. Was this some sort of _joke_ to Sherlock?

"And now you doubt me again."

"Is it true?" John asked suddenly. He saw Sherlock's amused expression drop into a straight face,

"Do you really want to know?"

John thought for a moment, "no." He looked down at his hands covering Mary's, "no I don't."

"You said you would be there for me." Sherlock said quietly. John felt the guilt swallow him up,

"I am, Sherlock," He stood from his chair, "I am, I promise."

"No...no, you're not." He replied grabbing his coat. John was about to ask where he was going but Sherlock had already left the flat and was halfway down the stairs. John debated following him but decided against it, he didn't want to make things worse.

Sherlock wanted to be alone. He probably thought that John was silently judging everything he said and did, when that wasn't the case. John slouched in his chair and sighed heavily. Mary sighed too, standing from the chair.

"I need to get ready for work."

"Want me to walk yo-"

"No." Mary called out as he slammed the bathroom door shut.

John sat there, baffled. What the hell had he done now? He ran a hand over his face and waited until he heard the front door slam, when he got up and walked to the window, watching Mary walk down the street with an angry stride.

"I always seem to make things worse." John muttered.

* * *

John had managed to keep himself occupied and not drown himself in worry. Sherlock would be fine, of course he would be. He thought to go after Sherlock and try and speak to him, he just didn't want to deal with all of this right now.

After thinking everything was going smoothly to just being smacked in the face with the truth that he was too blinded to see was just, well, it was fucking difficult. Sherlock meant a lot to him; he'd grieved for a year and a half and never fully recovered from the shock of watching his best friend kill himself.

If Sherlock had any idea about the struggle John went through to get over that, he wouldn't so difficult about all of this. The nightmares and frantic anxiety attacks when walking past Bart's, the paranoia, the denial, the _guilt_.

_'I could have stopped him.' John had thought, staring at the chair opposite him_. _'If I'd had just done something- anything!' _

And the way Mycroft had looked at him at the funeral, the pure guilt in Mycroft's eyes as he shook John's hand. _"There was nothing you could have done."_ _Mycroft said, "my brother is- was. Stubborn and this was...unfortunate." _

Then there was the Press. The media went crazy after the suicide, following John around half of London to ask him why he thought Sherlock did it, how long it had taken him to die, what _exactly_ had John seen. John never answered, why the hell should he have? It was none of their damn business. Sherlock was practically a celebrity.

When he had mysteriously turned up from the dead – after the Media had _just _forgotten all about it – reporters avoided Sherlock but took to John's blog instead. A majority of emails he'd received were from either adoring fans or reporters wanting the 'inside scoop' of the 'Walking Dead Detective'.

There were a few times John had seen fans outside of Baker Street, but they had never faced the two when they had left. John wondered just how much of the story the media knew. John had decided not to buy newspapers anymore, and try not to watch the news. Whether or not Sherlock had seen what was written about him, he didn't know - all he knew is that he had point blank tried to protect Sherlock from that. If people were avoiding Sherlock, then they're probably fearful or disbelieving that he's even real.

John can't blame them.

His ringtone filled the quiet flat; he looked down at his phone and frowned, not recognising the number. "Hello?"

_"Hello, may I speak to John Watson?"_ A female spoke into the receiver.

"Who's speaking?"

_"It's regarding your fiancée, Mary Morstan. This is Doctor Cassie Pult from Roymoor's Clinic." _

John paused, feeling a sinking feeling in his chest, "What's...what's happened?"

_"I think you should sit down, Mr. Watson." _Her voice was concerning and John took a deep breath. _Oh God no. No, no, no._

* * *

He'd heard Sherlock come into the flat but he didn't move. He couldn't _think, _he couldn't even look away from the phone on the table. Sherlock hovered in the doorway and John felt rage rise inside of him, this was _his _fault.

"She lost the baby." John's voice sounded distant to his own ears. Was that really him speaking? Was he really actually thinking? Why was he so angry?

There was a silence before he heard "I'm sorry." Leave the other man's mouth.

John lost it. He stood abruptly from his chair as his blood boiled, his hands were white from being forced into fists, his vision was red and he slammed his fists onto the kitchen table, "don't you _dare_ apologise to me." He shouted looking at the shock on Sherlock's face. John picked up the phone without thinking and launched it in Sherlock's direction, the other man just managed to dodge it as it smacked into the wall with a heavy force.

"This is all your fucking fault," John shouted again looking down at the table.

"John please," Sherlock's voice sounded quiet and heavy, the emotion never heard before. John thought back to the day he had gotten the call from one of Greg's officers, telling him Sherlock was alive. He remembered seeing the fear, the _pure panic _on Sherlock's face and he placed a hand over his forehead, closing his eyes.

"I need- I need to go to the hospital." He said finally, moving around the table to get his coat. Seeing Sherlock move away from him – actually recoil from him – made John freeze. Sherlock looked...he looked almost terrified. John looked down, feeling guilt crawl all over him, "I shouldn't have blamed you, I'm sorry."

When Sherlock didn't reply, John grabbed his coat and went to leave the flat, but Sherlock spoke, "I remember it all, John." He swallowed hard before continuing, "Everything."

John could _feel _the intense stare from the other man, he could feel all of the hurt, all of the memories, _everything._ He wanted to know – he really wanted to know where the hell Sherlock had actually been, whether Victor was being truthful or not, John wanted to hear it from Sherlock. He wanted to...to just wrap his arms around him, let him just share his hurting with John – it didn't matter to John how stupid, how pathetic, how absolutely ridiculous that sounded, Sherlock was his best friend.

"Sherlock, I-" _I don't think of you any different._

"Am I interrupting?" Victor's voice sounded from the doorway. John wanted to say yes, he wanted to push the man out of the flat and tell him to bugger off, but all that left his mouth was "No, no. I'm, uh, I'm going out so..."

Victor nodded with a smile and stepped into the flat. Something crossed over Sherlock's face, a dark emotion in his eyes; John left without a goodbye, he needed to see Mary, Sherlock would be fine with Victor.

* * *

**But will he?**


	14. Become Death

**Okay, this is the last chapter, and I'm afraid to say that not everything will be covered in this chapter. Please read the author's note at the end.**

* * *

He was swimming in this...this destruction. His mind felt swollen – broken – he felt disgusting, idiotic, pathetic-

_Evil. _

Disturbed was the only word he could manage to think of, because that's just what he was, that is exactly what he was and nobody could tell him otherwise.

He remembers, all of it, everything. The expressions on their faces – those...children. No older than nine, just young boys crying, screaming in agony, begging for their parents. He didn't miss it, no, no he didn't miss it and he wanted to get out when he arrived.

_Moriarty_. He thought darkly and looked down at his shaking hands – panic attack, where's John? John's not here. No, John's disgusted with him, John hates him, Sherlock's..._toxic_. Bile rose in his throat but he refused to vomit, he made himself this way, he was the one who raped boys, mothers, tortured men, fought men for his survival.

The memories flooded back every time, _every time._

And every time he wanted to throw himself off a building all over again. But this time, he wanted to actually die.

Molly...Oh God Molly.

No matter how many times he thought of an explanation – _they made me do it, I never wanted to _– he had _raped_ Molly. _I'm sorry._

Molly had screamed when she saw him in the morgue on his own a few days ago, even when he held his hands up and promised he wasn't going to harm her, she told him to get out, told him to get out or she would get security. He tried to explain – he did, but she had pushed him away and told him to get out.

He felt his chest close in when he left the morgue.

Nobody wanted him. He had done too much to turn to anybody; he had hurt everybody he knew. _I deserve it. _He thought turning into an alley and leaning against the cold wall. Closing his eyes, he remembered the day he was taken to the brothel.

_Darkness. That's it, he didn't know where he was, where he was going – peppermint – he could smell peppermint, too strong to be chewing gum, therefore it's cologne. _

_The bag was ripped from his head and he squinted at the light but a face came into view – Sebastian Moran. _

"_You're going to fucking pay." Was all he said before Sherlock blacked out from a smack to the head. _

_When he awoke again, he was in a basement of sorts, tied to a chair – very classic – and the right side of his head was in agony – smack from a pistol: MAC-50, semi-automatic, French._

_A hand patted his shoulder and he looked up to see...he couldn't remember, a face, so blurred and unrecognisable. _

_Next thing he could remember clearly was being pushed into the morgue with three guns at his head. They had hissed in his ear 'teach her a lesson for us.' He had tried to fight, tried to get out of their grasp, he didn't want to hurt Molly. _

_The terrified look on her face as he leaned in, trapping her between the wall and his body. How sick he felt, how...how desperately he wanted to stop, but he couldn't. He couldn't. _

His head hit the alley wall hard and he swallowed around the lump in his throat.

"_Sherlock, please!" _

"_Please, stop..." _

_..._

'_I'm sorry' _

He gripped his hair and pulled, sliding down the wall onto the floor and screamed through gritted teeth. Sorry was just a word, it _meant _nothing, it _was_ nothing.

_The brothel was high class, as was everything that Moriarty owned, and he was escorted inside where he was given a pair of plain clothes and told to go to a certain room. He'd gone to that 'certain room' and looked at the clothes. How dull, was all he could think. _

_Once he'd changed, he was escorted to an office where that...that face was, staring at him. "You're dead." It said, "You are dead and you now work for us." _

_When Sherlock had asked what he was supposed to be doing, the face snickered and told him to leave. _

_That's when it got sickening. _

_Hundreds of young boys were taken from their mothers who couldn't afford to keep them, sometimes the mothers would sell their selves too and Sherlock stared as he saw three older men drag a screaming child away from its mother. _

_He was later called in to..._

"I'm sorry," He said out loud and dug his nails into his palms.

_So much screaming – too much screaming. _

_Fighting men for money, betting on how long a child would last in the brothel, laughing – LAUGHING – as fifteen year olds failed at escaping. Then...then killing them, punching them until they couldn't move - until they didn't move._

_Slowly, ever so slowly, Sherlock began to lose himself. He locked himself away inside his head, forgetting how to feel anything because he was sure if he realised what he was doing, he would have killed himself long ago. _

_Why didn't he? _

Why didn't he?

And John...John had told him about Victor.

The weeks from when Sherlock had been found until now varied from perfectly normal to horribly depressing. He admitted that he felt better - he felt lifted. But...

_Victor, _the man Sherlock had trusted. But, he hadn't spoken to Victor about his experience in the past three years. He hadn't mentioned a word about the murder, the rape. Victor had told John what Sherlock had never spoken about.

_That face – the unrecognisable face was Victor. _

_Victor Trevor and Sebastian Moran._

Sherlock felt his mind untangle – it made sense. Everything, everything made sense and he could...he could see it. It watched him every night, it saw him in his dreams and it closed in on him when he was at peace. He couldn't tell John, he never wanted to. But now John knew, and now Sherlock knew he needed to disappear. But something...something was telling him to go back.

Should he? John was scared of him, it was obvious. Sherlock didn't understand why Mary was so...so accepting of him, he's just a burden on their life. Yet, yet she accepted him and laughed with him and made him feel...secure. Like John, almost like John but not like John.

John was special.

He walked into the flat of 221B; he hung his coat on the back of the door and saw John sitting at the table with a blank expression on his face. Something was wrong, something was very wrong.

"She lost the baby." John said; his voice heavy.

Sherlock felt his chest tighten and he looked down, "I'm sorry." The words slipped from his tongue easily now. Suddenly, John was angry and he shouted at Sherlock, telling him not to apologize. The scene played out so viciously, Sherlock wanted to reach out to John, But then...then John said it.

"_This is all your fucking fault!" _

And the walls began to close in, reality began to fade again, the corners of the room were darkening from his vision – nothing seemed real.

"John please," He almost begged because this all played out so correctly, it was Sherlock's fault, all of it. He did this; he broke this all just like he had broken all of those victims. All he did was destroy what life John had created.

He was too deep in thought, too involved in the vision of the blackness smothering him that he didn't see a body move until it was close to him and he recoiled away, what he had done was coming back for him; karma was going to rip him to shreds and he deserved every single moment of it.

Then John had disappeared and there stood the face, the smile and the sickening eyes that pierced into him. Victor Trevor.

"Sherlock, good afternoon," Victor crossed his arms, "are we not going to sit down?"

Sherlock stared the man in front of him down; he wasn't going to lose himself. "Don't think I don't know who you are, what you made me do."

Victor opened his mouth but closed it again, he pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and began to light one, "We didn't make you do those things, Sherlock, you _wanted _to do them."

"No, that's a lie."

"After the fourth boy, you were practically enjoying yourself."

"Shut up." Sherlock took a deep breath, hearing John's voice in his head telling him to calm down, to keep breathing deeply.

"Oh Sherlock, look at you, you're terrified." Victor laughed, "You should have known I'd find you."

"Why did you tell John?"

"You weren't going to." Victor smirked, "And I needed a way to bring you back. Your little...escape costs us a lot of cash. Cash we don't have, so you're going to come back and make it."

Victor looked more than satisfied and Sherlock wanted to wipe that smirk off his face, wanted to break him just like he had broken Sherlock.

_He had saved a young boy, refused to rape him, but that just angered Moran. Sherlock had been beaten and raped as a...a punishment. But it didn't ever stop after that, they sold him on with the others, making money from his body and pain. No matter how much he fought, it never stopped, never ceased, never made him forget. _

_Sherlock had planned to escape, he knew all the exits – windows, ledges and trees that surrounded the classy environment, so after three years of facing hell every morning and night, he decided to try and get out. Somebody had spotted him, shouted for others to chase him down and he fell from somewhere high – possibly a tree. Even as he woke and felt an abyss opening in his chest, he ran. _

_He just ran until he couldn't anymore. _

"You're going to kidnap me again?" Sherlock scoffed, hiding his shaking hands.

"No, no, of course not," Victor stubbed his cigarette out on the kitchen table. "But you will come back. You _miss _us too much."

Sherlock eyed him, feeling his stomach muscles tighten as Victor took a step towards him, then another, then another, when finally he was standing in front of Sherlock, eyes staring into his downcast blue ones, that thick smell of smoke surrounding the air.

"Hmm," Victor's voice rumbled through the room, "you're...ashamed, you're scared, _mon désir._"

Sherlock couldn't move when he felt a hand on his face, thumb stroking over his cheek. His entire body froze, tense and unfocused – _no, no, no-_

A rough grip was suddenly on his bandaged arm and his back hit the kitchen table, throwing him off guard – his body reacted too late as his hips pushed forcefully against the wood. He cried out unintentionally, knowing that showing weakness was a mistake, just _hearing _the chuckle from Victor's mouth made him squirm against the grip on his body.

"Stop it," he demanded weakly and struggled, knowing it was pointless.

Victor didn't reply and that terrified Sherlock even more. He knew what was going to happen, it had happened before, but never by Victor. He was the sit-back man. It was almost like some sort of surreal mafia.

When a hand ripped open his dress shirt, he struggled against the hands even more, feeling his world blackening. He could _feel _every finger running over his flesh, every inch of a nail over his chest, and when his trousers were slipped down his legs, he pushed against the man behind him, trying to kick him off.

"MRS. H-" but his words were cut short as a hand covered his mouth, the rest of the shout muffled. He wondered if Mrs. Hudson had heard him, he wondered if anybody would come in and save him because he knew – he _knew _– this would break him, he would be irreparable.

"Please," he begged - muffled, feeling the grip tighten over his mouth.

"Shhh," Victor soothed. Sherlock felt pure dread filling his veins, his blood running cold against his skin. He couldn't breathe, he could think, he didn't want to face what was going to happen.

The pain was intense, so disgustingly painful. He still struggled, still fought through the stabbing thrusts. He had forgotten the pain, forgotten how awful it felt unprepared – _rape._ He gave up at the word, his head falling against the wood of the table. This was too much, this all hurt too much. John trusted Victor, Sherlock had trusted Victor – they never knew _this_ was going to happen.

Who would believe him? He was just a mad man.

His hips grinded painfully against the table, making it rock dangerously. Victor grunted behind him, digging his nails into Sherlock's hips, he was now moving in a way that it was becoming pleasurable among the pain and Sherlock felt like recoiling every time he felt the sharp stab of bliss, this wasn't supposed to be pleasurable – this was rape.

This was rape and Sherlock deserved it, deserved to feel how others felt in his grasp, deserved to be dehumanized because he was sick – a _psychopath_. He made others suffer, he lost himself when he _knew – _he KNEW what he was doing. He deserved to know what it felt like, again and again and again.

Until finally - it stopped.

He was forced up by his hair and shoved down onto his knees, Victor's erection forced into his mouth; hitting the back of his throat with such a force it made him gag and try to recoil. There were a few more thrusts that hit his urethra before he felt Victor ejaculate down his throat. Immediately he wanted to be sick – that feeling of being so _tainted_ pushed against the back of his mind. Victor gripped his chin before he could fall fully to the floor,

"I don't see why you try." Victor's voice rang out in the quiet flat, his French accent deafening to Sherlock's ears. "You are destroyed, you are unfixable and you are dead." His eyes shimmered with satisfaction, "you know exactly where you stand – alone. You have done the worst and now that Johnny knows...well, say goodbye to this life."

Sherlock closed his eyes and let the words sink in; he couldn't reject them because he knew they were all true.

Victor left him alone on the kitchen floor and waved at Sherlock, leaving 221B without another word – leaving Sherlock with those thoughts, those dark, evil thoughts that couldn't leave him alone – the ones that pierced through him, made him eager to just give in to the darkness. He wanted to vomit but his back ached and his legs refused to move. He clenched his fists as tight as he could and shut his eyes, refusing to hear those voices in his head.

_You are dead_. Victor's voice rang out in his ears.

_I owe you. _Moriarty called,

_You're going to fucking pay_, Sebastian's face, so full of rage and hatred made him push himself off the kitchen floor and stagger to the kitchen counter where his legs failed again.

He breathed deeply, following John's instructions from before. _Just keep breathing deeply. _Sherlock's lungs felt tight, his thoughts swarming his mind like a nest of wasps, begging for prey. Although he breathed, he wished he didn't.

After long moments of calming himself, he lifted himself into a standing position and walked over to the bathroom, fighting through the severe pain and – _blood, definitely blood _– running down his legs. It was terrifying, parts of the room beginning to disappear as he approached the shower. He had looked down at the floor and saw himself sitting there, a blade to his wrist. Why had he done it? Could he really not control his mindset?

_Of course you can't. How low you've sunk._

He ignored the voice and began to run the shower, steaming from the hot water, staring into the mirror above the sink as it began to cloud over. John had removed sharp objects from the bathroom and hidden the knives from the kitchen. Sherlock could find them if he wanted to, but he _didn't_. He was sick of being like...like _this_. Knowing there was nothing he could do, he saw his reflection smile at him and he blinked, seeing the smile drop from the tired face.

* * *

Lying in bed was the only thing he could do without wanting to violently die. He was alone with his thoughts, how filthy he was how worthless he was and the main, sickening thought, how he had let John down. He was helpless, that much was obvious.

A noise from his bedroom doorway distracted him, suddenly he flinched at the sound and turned over as fast as he could in case Victor had returned, but there stood John, a quizzical look on his face. "You okay?" He asked, debating whether or not to step forward.

"I'm fine," Sherlock replied turning back over, his heart beating so extraordinarily fast he thought it would leap from his chest, "headache, that's all."

He could tell John nodded as there was a moment of silence.

"Mary's...well, she's alright. Obviously not..." John started quietly, "I'm sorry I blamed you."

"You're right." Sherlock heard himself say, his words sounding louder than ever.

"Right about what?"

"It is my...It's..." Sherlock began but felt the bile rise in his throat and suddenly he stood from his bed and walked over to the bathroom, shoving John out of the way and slamming the door. His throat burned as he vomited into the toilet, releasing the putrid fluid from his stomach. He felt better when he had stopped, leaning against the bath, holding his throat as he breathed in gulps of air.

"You might be coming down with something." John spoke through the door, "anything I can get you?"

"No," Sherlock croaked and then cleared his throat, "no, I'm alright."

"Are you sure? I said to Mary I'd get her some clothes so you better make use of me while you can." Sherlock could hear the humour bouncing off his words and he smiled faintly,

"Thank you but I said I'm fine."

There was a brief silence before John replied, his voice now more relaxed, "all right. I'll see you when I get back."

Then he was gone and Sherlock was alone again. He heard the front door shut after a few minutes and that finally made him stand and clean himself up, running a hand through his messy hair.

_So, so selfish. _He was. John had calmed him, made him feel real again, when John was the one that needed calming – John _and _Mary needed someone and here Sherlock was, vomiting up semen from a rapist and child trafficker.

_So, so pathetic. _

"I know." He said aloud and left the bathroom, his thoughts chasing him into the living room.

Going back would end him, he would lose himself like he did before and he would destroy others for his own gain and he didn't want to forget his mind. He wanted to be _him _again, to breathe and to think at ease, to have John by his side, helping him through it all.

But John hated him. Mary hated him. Sherlock had erased the good from John's life just by being an idiotic, _pathetic piece of shit that he always has been_. He paced in the living room, pulling at his hair in desperation to avoid these little memories and thoughts – the flashbacks, the horrifying screams and blood, all of that blood.

He could feel himself falling, lower than before, lower than ever before and he screamed, turning to the mirror and staring the man inside it down. The man inside smiled so sinisterly that it was not Sherlock. He dashed forward and smashed his fists into the mirror, shattering the reflection inside.

_What is happening to me? What _has_ happened to me? _

'_You are broken~'_ Moriarty's voice called out and he looked down at his hands and forearms, bloodied from the shattered glass.

Dazed by the blood, he stumbled backwards into the chair and stared at his hands. _What are these for? Destruction or construction?_

What was his purpose? He had taken lives, was that all he was good for?

His past life, he had saved lives, he had proven everyone wrong just for the purpose of being...right. But now he was wrong. He had always been wrong.

He chuckled to himself, Moriarty was dead and he had still destroyed him.

Upon seeing nothing worthy in his existence, he rose up from the spot in his chair and approached the desk beside the window. Was he going to do the right thing? His thoughts finally made him see how unworthy he is of life. Desperate to smother his thoughts of regret, he reached for the gun within the draw and felt the coldness of the metal tingle his skin; so many years unused, for now it shall be used wisely. He lifted the heavy object from the wooden compartment and visualised how he would be found; a broken mess of a man lying in his own blood. Perhaps then he could respect himself, perhaps then he could stop his broken course of stinging thoughts.

_A token of memory_, he thought deeply, _remember that boy? _He did; the first boy to recognise him, he looked at him with those bright, patent eyes full of fear; he reminded him of himself and that hurt. It hurt such a disgusting amount that Sherlock had turned away, had told Moran to let the boy go, he couldn't face it anymore. Of course, the boy wasn't let go and probably suffered an awful amount. He couldn't even save a twelve year old, what use was he? He had let John down; he had dismantled Mary's life. He was sick.

Lifting the gun towards his head, he inhaled deeply and clicked off the safety. This was end. With his free hand, he reached for a pen on the desk and began to write on the back of scrap paper.

_John, _He began, _as I am stood, I am awaiting the welcoming arms of death. Society grasped me in their cold, cruel hands and disposed of my existence with little or no tears among each of them. I cannot continue with what I've done, knowing every day others have suffered more than I should have; I am a mess, an uncontrolled psychopath. You are the most understanding, brilliant man I could have ever met. I was lucky to have you._

_You have lived with my death before and I am definite that you can live with it again, but this time, I will not be coming back. Forever grateful, _

_Sherlock Holmes._

Tears threatened to escape him as he choked back a loud sob signing his signature at the bottom of the letter. He looked back up at the window and dropped the pen. A thousand and one thoughts crossed his mind but he neglected a hundred and forty-two of them and left himself with the grimacing facts that called to him.

"I am dead." He whispered closing his eyes and feeling his finger press on the trigger.

* * *

**Well, that's that then guys.**

**Thank you for all the kudos/reviews/comments/favourites and follows! I've had fun writing this and it's been awesome completing it! **

**A/N: I couldn't quite sort out how to do this the way I wanted to do this, so I had to split the chapters into different chapters which caused more chapters, then I deleted a lot and added a lot, and well, Sherlock's point of view _needed _to be only in the first and last chapter, that is how I wanted it so it was going to be that way. **

**There is going to be a sequel that will answer the unanswered questions. Please keep an eye out for it, it will be called Under the Outer Layer and I will mention it in the summary of this fanfiction when it's uploaded.**

**Again, thank you all so much for the support! I can't wait for you guys to read the sequel! (if you will, that is ;A; please do!)**

EDIT: sequel now up: [ /s/ 9703596 /1/ Under-the-Outer-Layer ]


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